You wouldn't even think about doing it...

Awh so sweet...

I had this lovely table of 2 the other night, Mother and daughter. They were out to celebrate their birthdays. The mother's had been a few days earlier and the daughter's was coming up over the weekend. I thought it was very sweet. The mother looked quite proud, almost as if she had been looking forward to this "rite of passage" moment. They ordered well, crab claws, steaks, wine and all the sides you could want.

We weren't very busy and I put a bit of effort in for them. Well you have to some time, it's normally very difficult to motivate me when it's quiet. But I thought the picture of a mother and teenage daughter out together for dinner was, like I say, very sweet. Let's be honest most teenagers spend their time moping about their bedroom's waiting for other mopes to text them or indulging in that other teenage past time of self harming. Ask them if they want to go out for a family dinner and you will be met with a "For Gawd's sake leave me alone maaaaaaannnn".

I fussed around them topping up their wine and smiling sweetly. I had a plan to get them some of our very indulgent chocolate fondant cake resplendent with two birthday candles. I wasn't going to sing happy birthday though. I do for large parties when you can be sure they are going to join in and I can fade my screech out. But not with a table for two. It would be as embarrassing for them as it would be for me. I had a vision of tears and upset, "Mummy make the man stop, please make him stop..." as the daughter rocked her self into psychotic state. It's happened a few times in the past.

As it happened my silky tones were not going to be heard. In fact the indulgent chocolate fondant cake wasn't going to get and outing either. I was on my way down to clear the main course when the young birthday girl walked passed me. I assumed she was heading to the bathroom. Turns out she had spotted some of her friends loitering with intent outside the bar and wanted to go say hello. No big deal I thought. But 5 minutes turned into 10 minutes which turned into 20 minutes. I made small talk with the abandoned mother. Thankfully the daughter returned but...

But only to collect her bag and coat. She got a better offer from her friends so she dumped her mother and split. I watched from a distance. The mother was gob smacked to say the least. I was fucking gob smacked. Given the chance I know who I would have smacked in the gob. She wasn't angry, she didn't shout, she was just left sitting there in a state of disbelief on her own in a quiet restaurant. I moved in. The woman was distraught. Distraught women are a speciality of mine. Tears were welling in her eyes. She explained the situation and ordered a coffee. I offered sympathy and a liqueur coffee to ease the pain. Five minutes later she asked for the bill. If I could have I would have comp'd the lot for her but my powers are limited, that is to say I have no powers. Thankfully she remembered to tip in the midst of this emotional family crisis. There would have been more than her in tears otherwise.

But what a selfish, nasty, horrible thing to do to your mother. You just wouldn't do it would you?

Would you?

If that was my daughter she would be dead to me now. God I hope they turfed her out on her ass the next day.

Shove it mummy,
I'm going on the lash with the lads...

Listen Oswald, I'm Not The Same As you...

Forgive me Manuel for I have sinned...

You get to know your regular customers. I mean other than what they like to eat and where they like to sit and that they like their steak medium with just a little blood but not so much blood that it runs etc etc etc. After a while they volunteer all sorts of information, where they are going on holiday, who in the family just got pregnant/married/promoted, how drunk somebody got last Saturday night. And it's not just the good stuff either you get to see their scars from operations and have to act as referee during little fights. You get let in on private and intimate secrets such as the lady who told me about her miscarriage. Months later she told me the IVF treatment had been successful and she was pregnant again. It was sweet to hear the end of the story.

People tell me the strangest things. They seem to trust me. Maybe they wouldn't if they knew about Well Done Fillet! Hell maybe they wouldn't if they knew I was blabbing to the kitchen staff minutes after they told me some deep dark secret. Well not all secrets are shared.

Customers make the terrible assumption that I am the same as them, that I have the same problems as them. I've never owned a Mercedes C-Class so how the fuck would I know how difficult it is to get reasonable insurance for one?! As a waiter I don't have the disposable income for weekends in the South of France so I have no frame of reference when it comes to the problem of finding a good chalet with staff. I am the person that brings you extra napkins and pours your wine, not your bloody golf buddy. Jesus wept!

But all that is tolerable, bearable, even welcome, in comparison to one particular strain of conversation that has reared it's very ugly head over the last few months. Here's how tonight's version went...

"Good evening. I hope you're all well. Can I get you something to drink?" I enquire in my affable and polite way.

"Oh good your local!" Exclaims suburban Nazi lady "Tim, the waiter's local! What a relief. We've had such trouble lately with, well you know, these damn Polish types."

"Don't speak a word of the language you know. Bloody terrible trouble trying to get a Gin and Tonic the other night. Brought me bloody Bacardi! Terrible night." Adds suburban Nazi man.

I blank them. You wont drag me into your Monday night rascitfest.

"They are coming for your job your know." Warns suburban Nazi lady in her sternest Gin soaked voice. Suburban Nazi man nodded along as he scanned the wine list.

I had a quick look around me but couldn't see any Polish waiters hiding anywhere. Maybe they were under table 7 or they were discussing tactics in the toilets.

"Oh I'm so glad you speak English. I couldn't bear another night of repeating myself to the waiter over and over again" Suburban Nazi lady was getting more than a touch melodramatic. It as if she had just arrived into the last remaining restaurant in Belfast.

I couldn't resist following with "Pardon?"

And on it went. They made numerous references to how glad they were that I wasn't a "bloody Pole or one of them Romanian gypsies".

It was the casual manner of their racism that got to me. They spoke to me as if we were all in the same club, "Middle Classes For Forced Repatriation". And that fucking got to me. They got to me. But what really got to me was that I never said anything. I never pulled them up on it. I never said "Go fuck yourself you dirty WASP bastards." (Or even something less likely to get me fired) I never stood up for the Polish waiters and barmen that I know. That I like and work with. I just blanked them. Silence. I didn't nod along or agree with them but I didn't defend people I know. That's cowardice. And I'm angry with myself.

It's the third or fourth time that this has happened. But no more silence. I'll be putting the little Brown Shirts in their place. They will be told firmly that I ain't the same as them and to stick their opinions up the asses. Or words to that effect.

And another thing whilst we are at it, I'm on a roll here, people who have affairs are getting on my tits too. Are they just dumb as fuck or what is it? There is a regular customer who has been eating at the restaurant for as long as I have worked there who it turns out is having an affair. Now I don't care about that. I don't like it, but it's not my concern. The younger lady who he regularly dines with, kisses across the table, feels up when he thinks no one can see him isn't his wife. I now know this as he brought his wife and son to the restaurant on Sunday for lunch!

ARE YOU FUCKING NUTS?

ARE YOU FOR REAL?

ARE YOU THAT FUCKING COCKY?

WAS THERE NO OTHER RESTAURANT YOU COULD HAVE GONE TO?

And to make it worse he pretended like he didn't know me. What a dick. God I hope he gets caught. That'll teach him to ignore me....

Now who else wants some? I'm in the mood for dropping soup on someone.

Anti Nazis and The Happily married Subscribe in a reader

Beneath this warm and cuddly exterior, lies the heart of a killer...

You want some do ya...?

Well not really but when pressed into action I can become more than a bit animated. But I am more Raging Lamb than Raging Bull. But I was prepared to lay down my fists of fury the other night when a lady came out of the bathrooms all a flutter and shocked announcing "There's a man in there!"

Oh really is there now...

I press-ganged The Princess into coming with me into the ladies conveniences. I didn't want to enter such a sacred and hallowed place without a female with me. The judge has warned me about this.

So there we were in the ladies toilets, oh what joy. I was thinking this wasn't going to end well. How could it. Why would there be a chap in the ladies? What could he be doing? That particular thought had me very vexed. I have had experience with these sorts before when I worked in a coffee shop. There was a regular customer who it turned out like to expose his "Grande" to all the young ladies. It's not a fun situation...

[knock knock] "Hello, who's in there?" I enquired in the sternest "man" voice I could muster.

The reply was more than a bit of a shock "Hello? Eh there's no toilet roll..." Said the confused and somewhat cheesed of lady.

Lady? What the fuck!? We were at the wrong cubicle door. We hadn't checked to see if there was anyone else there. The Princess ran to get the lady some toilet roll and duly passed it over the top of the cubicle door to a well manicured and painted hand. So again..

[Knock knock] "Hello, who's in there?" I asked again getting really annoyed

"Aye mate...I know I know. I shouldn't be here...." replied the anxious chap

"SHOULDN'T BE HERE? SHOULDN'T BE HERE? GET OUT OF THERE NOW!" I was not in the mood for this messing about and became very aware that there was no one working in the restaurant as The Princess and I were both in the ladies toilets. She was manning the door to prevent any ladies from entering. We didn't need any one else in there. And we still hadn't established what he was up to.

"What the hell are you doing in the ladies toilet?" I asked towards the cubicle door. "In fact I really don't care just get out..."

"But listen mate.."

"Don't you "mate" me, just GET OUT!"

"Aye... but.... here just let me explain..."

"I swear to God if you don't get out of that toilet now..."

And then the door opened. Good job too as I had no idea what I was going to do if he hadn't opened the door. There was no way I was going to break it down. Imagine the horrors that could have faced me on the other side. He stood there all sheepish and thankfully, smaller than me.

"Right, you are out of here. Don't even try to explain, you know very well you shouldn't be in the ladies toilet."

I was ushering him towards the door, well trying to. He wanted to explain his actions. I just didn't care. I wanted him out of the toilets, and out of the building. I was also aware that the lady who needed the toilet roll was still in her stall. That's not good. Very not good.

As I frog marched him downstairs to the bar he told me that he had to use the ladies toilets as he had thrown up in the gents and the smell was making him sick. So rather than throw up again he thought he would use the ladies instead. What a regular Stephen Hawking! Bravo genius boy!

"So let me get this straight, you threw up in the gents toilet, didn't tell anyone or attempt to clean it up, then decided to use the ladies toilet?"

"Aye mate... But here..."

" Nah, don't want to here any more, you are out of here"

We were now standing beside his five much larger friends. Who were giving me the "What's your problem mate?" look of death. Now my serene and jovial night had been torn asunder by a midget (anyone smaller than me must be technically a midget) going pee pee in the ladies toilet and I wasn't in the mood for any more arsing about.

"Listen you lot can knock it off too. He's out of here for throwing up and for being in the ladies toilet. So if you want to stay that's fine but this one is a goner. Good? Right!"

I made sure he went and then bombed back up to the toilets to find a pool of ...

Well you can imagine. When I got back to my section my tables were giving me a look of abandoned children. But twenty minutes later all was back on track and the midget who likes to pee in the ladies toilet was but a distant memory.

I could have beat his ass. Bitch.

Sometimes I frighten myself....

Manuel and the horrible situation

table for 3...some?

I get whacky phone calls at work all the time. People ask the dumbest questions:

"Can you read me out your menu?"

"Our kids only eat KFC can we bring some in for them?"

"Do you have to book for Saturday night?"

"What soup will you be serving in 3 weeks time?"

"Can I book a car and 2 passengers for the first sailing next Saturday?" My friend used to take these bookings every so often. Just for the craic you understand.

And so on. But none tops the call I answered one Sunday morning last summer...

Hello Manuel speaking how can I help you?

Yeah.........Hello...

Hello? Can I help you? Hello?

Yeah...em...Here's what it is mate. Do yous uns have CCTV cameras in there?

CCTV Cameras?

Aye mate, CCTV Cameras. I'm nat gonna rob the place or owt. It's just...It's just that my wife....I think my wife was there last night with another man...I think she's having... (There was definitely the sound of upset in his voice)

Oh right, oh um okay. What can I do for you though sir?

Well here can I come down and see the tape from last night. Just til see if she is in wi another fella?

Ah right. Cant see that happening sir to be honest. But I tell you what I'll put you through to the manager and maybe he will let you.

Aye aye sweet mate cheers....

No problem sir.

I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Poor sod. The manager said no. Well not directly. He gave him the in's and out's of data protection law and the addresses of people he could contact regarding data protection. I'm sure poor little Johnny two-timed was comforted by all that.

Still stiff upper lip and all that old chap....

Of course I spread the news of my phone call like the clap in a whore house, or if you prefer like, measles in a kindergarten. We speculated as to who it might have been. Ah the fun that we have at customers and their spouses expense.

Barristers, Bankers, and the Bonkers: Full Moon Tales

Howling at the moon or Shouting at the waiter
it's all the same to these dicks...

I should have guessed there was a full moon coming. Teachers aren't nice, and Frenchmen aren't polite. They, like all the unhinged in society, are affected by changes in the lunar calendar. If you are normally a rude, smug, self obsessed, authoritarian then the appearance of a full moon seems to mellow you out. If you are normally an arrogant, rude, smug, self obsessed, continental type then the appearance of the full moon seems to turn you a bit Irish. Which is nice.

Clearly there were going to be negative effects of the full moon. For example we had a table of barristers. Despite being told earlier in the afternoon that they couldn't add anyone on to their table of 18, as there wasn't the room, they arrived with 22 then 23 finishing at 24. And then had the balls to complain that "We're all squashed" Awh poor didums. How could people who are without a doubt intelligent, logical, and articulate become so fucking dumb? 24 into 18 doesn't go! But then again if you wear a long black gown and wig to work everyday then you have to assume that there is something slightly lacking in your mental make up. Take em down m'lad.

At the same time that the barristers were messing themselves we had a table of 30 senior bank employees arrive. They were hammered, pished, fall down drunk. Serving people who have enjoyed more than a sniff at the barmaids apron is an occupational hazard. But when it's such a large group of egotists you really have to be on the top of your game. For the most part they were friendly drunks, but there were about 8 nasty drunks amongst them.

Here, get me a pint of Guinness?

Yes sir in a moment (we were serving the first course at the time)

For fuck sake I'll get my own

And up he got nearly knocking The Princess over in the process. What a dick. This particular group are regular customers and whilst they certainly wouldn't be my favourites they aren't normally this aggressive. And it wasn't just aggression there was love on their minds too. We all had a giggle at the married couple talking to a younger co-worker. The older gentleman was having a really good fondle of his younger colleagues bottom the whole time whilst standing with his arm round his wife's shoulder! There was something akin to mayhem in the room they were dining in. Ties round heads, bottles of wine lifted to mouths, screaming and whoop whooping, glasses getting knocked over. Sweet Jesus give me strength. If they had morphed into apes and started flinging their shit round the room I wouldn't have been a bit surprised. A real bunch of bankers...

But my favourite and slightly surreal moment was when The Princess and I were outside having a well earned smoke break. We were approached by what can only be described as a very shiny drunk man. He had one of those suntans that can only be obtained by spending lots of time drinking outdoors. He wore tight blue jeans, black slip on shoes and a denim shirt, unbuttoned to his belly button. The full moon reflected on his bald burnt slap head. He stumbled over to us with one arm outstretched much like an extra in George A Romero's Night of the Living Dead. When he finally made it he opened with:

"Here, here, smoking? You... now c'mon...smoking! Ahhhhh now smoking...not allowed..."

Fuck right off will you? I'm not in the mood

"You telling me to fuck off? EH...Give us a fag?"

No, now will you piss of and leave us alone.

He was trying to get up off the road but the kerb was proving too much of an obstacle.

"You two aren't meant to be smoking. I know the Chief Custable you know...10 FEET from the wall...meters....feet..yes feet...ten feet"

Jesus! We went outside to get away from the loonies not to engage one in conversation. He was wobbling all over the place and barely coherent. Much like the bankers upstairs. He made one more attempt to get a fag and shuffled off shouting "ten feet..not meant to be smoking...Custable...blue moon you saw me standing alone.."

Well maybe not the blue moon bit. I'm checking my diary and will ensure I am off work for the next full moon...

Some girls cannot stay away from the Manuel

All roit der Manuel?

Had Sammy, sorry that's Ms Samantha Mumba to you oiks, in for lunch today. Not the first time she has used food as an excuse to come visit me. But that's just the way it is. You get served by Manuel and 2 and a half years to three years later you come running back for more. She tried to pretend she didn't remember me but I could see she was all a quiver and slightly nervous as she placed her order. She was just playing it cool.

But when she insisted on sitting on my lap for the entire meal whilst gently bouncing and singing her greatest hits I had to say,

"Mumba, your not on! I'm a human being with feelings and emotions. I'm not, just, sexy man eye candy for you to undress with your eyes. I have other customers and they deserve my time too. Now eat your goujons and stop the begging. Your causing a scene."

Ha! Now that told her. Probably why she didn't tip.....

Eet as cow sheets in it....!

a Ballygowan cow
hard at work

"Ave you got a boittle of Deeeep Rivyer Rock water?" Asked the scruffy French man.

"Yeah why not" I replied.

This table had me stressed out already and they hadn't even ordered yet. It was a six top, 5 Russians and the scruffy Frenchman. Four of the Russians had been there for about twenty minutes before the Frenchman arrived. The problem was none of the Russians could speak English. This was clear when I asked them if they would like a drink. The just replied with blank stares. I gave them the international sign for drink, cupped hand to mouth, and to see their little faces light up was a joy. I say "little" but these guys looked like ex-army, shoulders you could tap dance on and fists like shovels.

"Forbish" said the leader of the Russians

"Forbish?" Now I wore the look of puzzlement.

"Bish, forbish" he explained. "Visky, Bish visky!"

"Ahhhhhhh, BUSHMILLS whiskey?" We were getting somewhere.

I should add a Russian to English dictionary to my bag list. I served their Bish Visky and left them alone hoping someone who could speak English would be joining them.

It didn't get any easier with the rest of my tables. I had a table of 6 French tourists and a 7 top who could have been the crew of a Benetton advert such was the diversity of their make up. All the locals must have been manning the sandbags.

I digress.

The scruffy Frenchman arrived along with another Russian, much to the relief of both me and the Viskied up Russians. There was much slapping of backs and hugging. The Frenchman took over.

So now we are back to the start of the story again.

"Ave you got a boittle of Deeeep Rivyer Rock water?"

I said yes, knowing fine rightly we serve Ballygowan mineral water. But waters water eh? And what was Pepe Le Pew to know! So off I popped to retrieve their waters. But as soon as I returned to the table Pepe got upset with my choice of water.

"Sir, what ess thesse? You ave no Deeep Rivyer Rock water? Eet ees the best no?"

I was getting a bit pissed off. If they were gonna get picky about the brand of mineral water we serve then it didn't auger well for the rest of the meal.

"Would you prefer that I take the water away? Maybe you would prefer some tap water? I enquired with "genuine" sincerity.

"No, no eet will do. You should serve Deeep Rivyer Rock water. Eet is much superior to dis water."

Christ, just what I need, a mineral water expert.

"Look at theese" he said pointing out the label. "Theese numbers mean eet is full of cow sheets."

"Really sir, cow sheets?" I was really hanging on to life by this point. I wanted to scream "IT'S FUCKING WATER YOU DICK!" But instead countered with a tirade against Deep River Rock and it's producer, the wonderful Coca-Cola company. I gave them chapter and verse about the whole Dasani affair and how dodgy Coca-Cola are. I really went for it. Pepe wasn't having it though and kept shaking his head saying,

"But Deeep Rivyer Rock water has no cow sheets in it!"

I served and poured their water and managed to excuse myself from the table. The rest of the meal went without a hitch. The Russians ordered more whiskey and Pepe had more cow poo infested water. We laughed about it! But Pepe wouldn't let it go.

After a while they asked for the bill, they paid and left leaving no tip. Fuck you, I thought to myself, it was only bloody mineral water. I went down to the table to see if they had left anything there. There was no cash, instead I found a business card for Pepe Le Pew. A business card for, wait for it, Coca-Bloody-Cola.

MERDE as the French might say.

all the planning in the world
couldn't prevent this case of foot in mouth

It's not just cash, there's singing too

black is the colour of my true waiter's hair
You're so money...

I had another hen party last Saturday. I wasn't going to let my previous experience of hen parties put me off. And more importantly why should the nearly married young ladies of Belfast miss out on the joy and fun that is being served by Manuel.

Hen parties are good craic. The participants, for the most part, are up for a laugh and I see it as my role to add to that. Others maybe happy just to bring food and drink to and from the table, but not me. I see my role as being the one who has to "take it" for the male gender. By "take it" I mean jokes and the like were men are the punchline and so on. Not actually "take it" in a penetrative way. All though....(that's just a joke honey bunny)

From my point of view there are 4 people who need the most attention to ensure a good hen party.

First you have the hen herself, you need to make her feel all important and tell her how lucky her betrothed is and tell her how wonderful she looks (that's not always easy as last weeks "lady" proved). And I think it's very important not to let her get too drunk too early. Whilst the rest of the table is trying to pour all sorts of dodgy cocktails down her I like to act as the counter balance to that and keep a jug of water close to her during the meal. Finding yourself face down in a plate of pasta by 8.30 is not what anyone wants.

Next is the organiser. She is usually the sister or best friend of the hen. She chose the restaurant so if it goes wrong it's all her fault, then mine. These people are almost always stressed out. I like to get to them early and get a drink into them and get them calmed down. There is only room for one control freak in the restaurant and I have that role all sewn up thank you. The organiser is also the one that handles the bill, so for obvious reasons it's important to keep her sweet.

Then you have the mothers! Both have different emotions on the hen night. The mother of the bride is proud of her daughter and her upcoming marriage. She might get a bit teary during the night. Then you have the mother of the groom. She may not have met her future daughter-in-law's friends so this can be a real eye-opener for her. Sometimes you notice them rolling their eyes as someone makes a rude or suggestive comment, or tries to remove my python from my trousers. (Python-hahahahahahahaha-LMM) I like to look after the older ladies most of all. The younger ones just need a steady supply of brightly coloured alco-pops, the older ladies need a bit more loving than that. I like to relax them with one of my cheesy/sleazy lines. "Gin and Tonic madam? Have you and ID as it's over 21 here for alcohol". Never fails to get a laugh. I am so money after that.

Last weeks hen was a good one. Good organiser, sober-ish hen, and good guests. They were dining in our private room so the were able to make a bit more noise than they would if they had been in the restaurant. They told stories after the meal and then they started a little singsong. One guest was an accomplished singer and she took over the entertainment. It was all a little formal for some who made their excuses and headed for the toilet. I was lurking in the shadows waiting for a break in the singing so I could clear the table. But I was spotted. They gave me a little round of applause and then sang a song for me. Now that would have been fine but they made me take a seat in front of them whilst they all sang to me. I was redder that Lenin by then end of the song. And what did they sing?

"Black is the colour of my true love's hair!"

For a bald man that is a bit cheeky! Huh! All I could think was is this song in lieu of tip? Thankfully it wasn't and they left 20%.
God bless hen parties.

And strawberry blond is the colour of my true love's hair...

It was a dark and rainy night

Some tables are more memorable than others. Last week's hen party was one of the more forgettable. But some tables stay with you forever. I was ruminating yesterday over past glories, the tables that tip you so well you get embarrassed, the tables that want to "wrap you up and take you home", the tables that give you a round of applause at the end. All these things have happened to me, some recently, some in the past. But few tables are as memorable as the one I had on a wet and windy Tuesday night many years ago...

It was a quiet rainy night in the middle of January. I had nothing booked save for a table of 10 at 8pm. Cold, wet, dark, and rainy nights in January aren't well known for being busy, so I wasn't expecting too much to happen. I was in first gear and intended to stay there. The booking though had me intrigued as I couldn't work the name out, THELITE. Maybe it was a company name. Maybe it was a tourist group. I put it down to bad spelling by which ever idiot took the booking. But I kept running the name over and over in my mind. I couldn't work out what it was but it felt familiar.

But I soon forgot about it when I felt compelled to join in the chefs conversation. It was the usual high brow fare, Roseanne Barr up the bum for £10,000? As the money went up so did the dare, culminating in Roseanne Barr up the bum for £1,000,000 on live TV in a bath of beans with your ma and da in the studio watching? Turns out most chefs would do anything for a million quid. But this conversation helped pass the time.

It was ten to 8 so I went to check that the table for THELITE was well set and ready to go. They had requested a quiet part of the restaurant away from other customers. Not a problem tonight as there wasn't anyone else in or likely to be either. Then the door opened and my jaw hit the floor. I was literally, and for the first time, lost for words. In walked Roy Keane, Richard Pryor and Joan Rivers. Roy was at the front with the other two following behind. Joan was her usual reserved self.

"Oh yeah darling, sucked my face right off. It's the best thing I've ever done. Oh you gotta get some done darling" wailed Miss Rivers.

Richard Pryor was just nodding his head, unable to get a word in except for the occasional "Fuck yeah"

I approached Roy with my hand out stretched, my voice failed as I squeaked "hello". I tried it again with a proper man sized "Hello, welcome, welcome. Are you guys booked?"

"Der's a table fawh 10 booked under duh name of duh elite" responded Roy, in a thick Cork accent, looking right past me.

"Duh elite?" I looked at the booking sheet to see what the great one was on about. And then it became obvious. THELITE was in fact The Elite.

"Yesyesthiswayyourtablesreadyohmyohmy" I was seriously babbling now and on the verge of becoming incoherent. But I composed myself and ushered them to their table. I was practically bowing as they walked past me. Richard nodded at me as he walked past, but it could have just been his usual head movement.

Richard and Joan sat beside each other but Roy sat at the other end of the table on his own. Joan was still extolling the virtue of plastic surgery to Richard who was becoming rather agitated with her. I made for him first.

"Yeah man, how you doing?" He seemed glad at the interruption. Before I could answer he asked me for a Scotch on the rocks. I got his drink and wine for Joan and water for the really very intense Mr Keane.

"Duh rest will be here in a few minutes." Assured the ever more pensive Mr Keane. He seemed annoyed that the rest of his party were late. Ever the pro!

Again the door opened and in came Morrissey, Humphrey Bogart, Larry David, and the majestic Liv Tyler. Larry David had his arm round her waist as he had been shielding her from the rain under a large black umbrella. But he kept hold of her even after he put the umbrella down. She looked uncomfortable but was too much of a lady to make a scene. She excused herself and asked for directions to the bathrooms. Larry seemed reluctant to let go. I couldn't speak and just pointed and mumbled "there". I'm sure I was dribbling.

" You gonna hog that dame all night?" snapped Bogey. He took his black overcoat off, revealing a very smart black dinning suit finished with a stiff white shirt and thin bow tie, and Fedora hat and past them to me.

"What? You think I was hogging her? I was just being a gentleman." Replied Larry defensively. He nudged Bogey and whispered "You think I got a chance?"

Bogey, ignoring him, lit a cigarette and said "I need a drink."

"What?" Larry stood there for a moment on his own with his arms out stretched. "Yeah, I got a chance." assuring no one but himself.

Morrissey, meanwhile, was already at the table and was kissing Joan Rivers on either cheek. He tried to high five Richard Pryor but made a mess of it and nearly knocked Joan Rivers of her seat. Roy laughed into himself. I got Morrissey some wine, a martini for Bogey and water for Larry David. He asked for "hot tea" first but Bogey threw him a look and he quickly changed his mind.

When Liv got to the table all the men stood up and took it it turns to kiss her gently on the cheek. Joan rose to her feet too and loudly air kissed her saying "Oh darling you look radiant! Are your tits real? I swear to Gawd I would kill for tits like yours. Like I should be so lucky!"

Liv went a lovely shade of pink for just a little moment.

"Where's that punk kid?" enquired Bogey, sucking a long draw from his cigarette.

"Can't make it." Answered Roy. "He's fucking depressed or summat like dat. He is sending his woife instead."

What punk kid? Who where they on about? My mind was racing with possibilities. The whole table groaned as Roy shared this news.

"I hate that tramp. My Gawd she is such a lush! And that music, well I say music. I've made sweeter music having sex." She went onto to make grizzly sex noises. The rest of the table groaned again

"Now Joan be nice" countered Liv. "We have to give her a chance, for Kurt. Mozzer, she can sit beside you. At least you two have something to talk about"

"But she doesn't even LIKE me ! And I know because she said so. In the room downstairs. She sat and stared. In the room downstairs. She sat and stared. I'll never make that mistake again" Replied Morrissey

"For fuck sake not again" Shouted Roy, his face was twisted and red and full of rage.

" Listen kid, I warned you about that the last time we went out, at Sam's place. Knock it off or I'll rub you out." Bogey was on his feet and pointing at Morrissey.

" You agreed Stephen, no more song lyrics during dinner." said Liv Tyler raising her voice like a school teacher.

Morrissey just laughed and said "That joke isn't funny anymore?"

Again the door opened and in strode a man smoking a pipe through a balaclava. In a dusky Latin sounding voice he announced himself to me "Subcomandante Insurgente Marcos. I am here for dinner with some friends."

By now nothing could surprise me. "Yup over here mate." I pointed him in the general direction of his table. I figured he would find it OK seeing as he had avoided capture by the Mexican authorities for years. I went to the bar and fixed myself a quick shot of Powers. This was getting ridiculous. With two places left to be filled I wouldn't have been surprised if Jesus and Baby Spice had arrived together holding hands singing "She'll be coming round the mountain."

But before I could wipe the whiskey from my lips I heard a soft but deep French voice coming from the doorway.

"Allo, où est chacun ? It is me, Eric. Allo?

And there he was, Eric Cantona, in the flesh standing bold as brass in my restaurant. Well I could have peed.

"Table. Elite. What? This way." Each word was said with more and more confusion. My head was pickled. I walked Monsieur Cantona to the table. He greeted each person individually. Kissing Joan and Liv on the hand. He lingered a bit longer with Liv. Well you would. But his warmest greeting was for Roy. They hugged and back slapped each other for more than two minutes. Much to Humphrey Bogart's annoyance.

Bogey took charge at this point. "Well see, we are all here. The kid ain't coming so lets order. I got plans see. Hey kid, you got menus here or do we gotta guess what's to eat?"

I ignored the rather heavy hint of sarcasm and headed to get the menus. It was Humphrey Bogart after all. Was I really going to backchat one of the finest actors of a generation? I approached the table ready to relay the specials and the soup. I took a look round the table for a moment, Roy Keane, Richard Pryor, Joan Rivers, Morrissey, Humphrey Bogart, Larry David, Eric Cantona Subcomandante Insurgente Marcos and the majestic Liv Tyler. Fuck me this was going to be interesting. As I stood there staring at them I failed to realise that they were staring at me.

"Yo cutie, the cat got your tongue?" Joan Rivers voice snapped me out of it and I smiled. But before I could get my first word out the door burst open again. There, drenched in rain which caused her makeup to run and looking like she had been on a five day drugs and drink binge, stood Courtney Love. She had a bottle of Jack Daniels in one hand and a salmon in the other.

"Hello boys, you weren't going to eat without me where you?" She slurred this with a manic grin on her face.

That's when the night really started....

Life is all about choices, so choose wisely.

Chocolate Willy
"Waiter, do they cum with cream?"

Bank holiday weekends, what a joy! They are much the same as any other weekend but with a few slight differences, people are slightly giddier on the Friday, and practically out of their minds with joy come 8pm on Sunday night. This contrasts sharply with the usual Sunday "feeling", the one that has them in tears as they have to leave the bar, go home and lay out their clothes for work on Monday morning. The few that stay on after 8pm end up performing the "I've got a terrible cold" phone call to the boss at half eight on the Monday morning. Obviously none of this applies to those with children, who instead of going out on a 3 day bender like their single co-workers, have the "joy" of spending an extra day reacquainting themselves with the kids. Bless.

This, for me, is the pishiest Bank Holiday of all. It's hard to predict what's going to happen. And I am not a fan of surprises. I like my booking sheets full and my customers on time. This being a Bank Holiday and not a public holiday it lacks the full force mayhem of the Mayday Holiday. And that is the way it turned out. As I had been paid on Friday my need for the cash was reduced and as a consequence of such my charm levels were dropped by a grovel or two. I'm still knackered though so here is Manuel's weekend in pictures.

Friday
Now that was a good shift. The fact that I knew my bank account was bulging, the redistribution of funds doesn't take place until Friday (rent etc), meant that I had a much more relaxed attitude to serving the masses.

this happened not once,
not twice,
but three times on Friday night.

But I stayed cool and laughed it off. People were dropping and spilling like it was a cool new fad. I was running round with club soda and salt assuring worried ladies, and it was without exception ladies, that the stain would come out. The only exception being the pint of Guinness that went for a wobble covering both the lady and the gent. There is nowt you can do there. Silly moo, as Little Miss Manuel would say.

Saturday

As the only chap that works on the floor in the restaurant I get first preference when it comes to serving hen parties. It makes financial sense. Women tip male waiters better than female waiters. I don't like the word waitress, and rarely use it. It's as annoying as manageress. Male customers look at male waiters as being Gay, and female customers view female staff as being whores. It's a fact. But Saturday offered the unique joy that is not one, but two hen parties. I opted for the one that was booked in our private room. They were an organised group and had left in a box of decorations, (embarrassing pictures, silly signs, chocolate penis "treats") along with instructions. Plus they were booked earlier than the other so that meant finishing earlier. Wrong choice...

I got a table of these

a fellow co-worker got these!
I swear it was like the cast of a Russ Meyer movie

Yes, I got the hen party from hell, complete with drunken hen, overbearing mother, and Mrs "I've-got-my-own-drink-in-my-bag-and-I'm-gonna-drink-it". AAAAAAARRRGGGHHH! I would have been okay if I hadn't seen the Amazonian table in the restaurant. But cherry on the cake? The bit that sent me over the edge? THEY WERE TEACHERS! I should have guessed when I got instructions on how to put up the decorations. The lady who brought her own booze changed from an amusing and enjoyable person to serve to an utter moo cow when I confiscated her hooch. The hen and her Gay friend went for a smoke as I served their main course. This caused ructions amongst some of the group as they didn't return for twenty bloody minutes. They paid their bill with elevated service charge and fucked off. I went back to the main restaurant to help out with the other hen party. I'm just that sort of chap you understand, helpful.

Sunday
Sunday night was tourist night. I assume the native population of Belfast had nicked off to some desolate seaside "resort" for the day. There were some...

Dutch "yesh, I'll have the shalmon"

Spiffing, "Tip? We English don't tip when in the Colonies"

Lovely Americans. God I love them and their wonderful tipping.
30%, that's were the magic is!

Monday
zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz, it got busy for a bit then zzzzzzzzzzzzzz

I was bored out of my skin

Not such a weekend in picture more of a weekend in pictures with subtitles. And whats with "Bank" Holidays anyway? Where's my Waiter Holiday? You would here some crying if that ever happened. The whole fabric of society would collapse as people had to make and serve their own food. We are the glue people, the glue that holds the whole thing together. Don't ever forget that...

Fat man and Thumb Stubber, the return

Table for 2? Not tonight sir
or any night in the coming decade

Unbelievable! The fact that this chap came within a hundred meters of the restaurant, let alone contemplated entering, is mind boggling!

Fat man and Thumb-stubber where the catalyst for this blog. They were the Straw that Broke this Camels Back. Cunts, and no mistake.

I was lurking round the side door of the building, enjoying a well earned smoke break, when I looked up and saw the massive bulk approach me. What was left of the evening sun was blocked out by his gargantuan frame. I recognised them straight away. He wore shimmering Farah-esque slacks and grey slip on shoes, that you just know covered up a pair of white socks, and an open neck shirt that revealed a curly, greying patch of chest hair. [shudder] He had his arm round Thumb-stubber the way teenagers do when they are full of hormones and can't stop touching each other. He probably can't walk unaided. Thumb-stubber herself was sporting a fetching trouser suit from Kay's Catalogue or a market stall somewhere. Her thumb glowed/radiated nicotine in the evening twilight.

Fat man spotted me first and nudged his yellowish lover who smiled nervously at me, revealing her yellow/brown teeth. Nice. He frowned, muttered something to Thumb-stubber then performed a perfect u-turn and wobbled away in the other direction. Whilst I was delighted they got the point that they are not welcome, I would have enjoyed telling them personally. But my God they must have some set of kahonas to even think about coming back. I'm a very forgiving person, but after their antics on their last visit I'd just leave it alone if I was them.

A beautiful couple and no mistake

To touch or not to touch? Let me help you...

don't ever touch me, EVER.

Now I think something's in life are just obvious. Saying please and thank you for example. Washing your hands after a pee. Not pissing of the person who will at some point handle your dinner, being a less obvious point, but when you think about it, it's a good call. Here are some more "dont's" that I thought would be obvious but recent weeks have proved me wrong.

Don't seat yourself, ever. Marching through the restaurant and sitting yourself wherever you fancy is just going to piss your waiter off from the start. And for obvious reasons that is best avoided. I will move you to the shittiest table available regardless of whether your current table is reserved or not. You see the sign that reads "PLEASE WAIT TO BE SEATED"? That applies to you. And don't sit there all huffy wondering where the waiter is with your menus. You sat yourself a-hole, you can take your own order!

Don't ignore your waiter and he won't ignore you. If I come to your table and ask you how it's all going or ask you if you would like some pudding then bloody well answer me. By ignoring me you are just being rude and will have to pay the rude tax. Mmmmmmm doesn't your cappuccino look very creamy! Waiters know the menu better than anyone else, chefs included (cooker monkeys), so if the waiter advises you to get a side order with your pasta special then get it. He knows it's small and it needs something else. It's more than suggestive selling, it's helping. I won't give a h'pennys fuck if you start whinging after the fact. LISTEN TO ME I KNOW EVERYTHING, about the menu.

Don't ever, and I mean ever, think it's cool or acceptable to touch up the staff. If you are Brad Pitt then I'm sure the girls at work wouldn't mind and I'd go as far as to say that Jessica Alba can rub my buns all she wants. But the rest of you knock it off. Particularly if you are a sleazy 50 year old male with an open neck pink shirt on exposing a cheap "gold" chain sitting beside your wife. We all want to feel the bottoms of 19 year old girls, God knows I do, but we don't. We exercise some self control. And when you get pulled for it don't start bitching to the manager about the way the waiter spoke to you. Cock. That actually happened.

touch me
please touch me

Don't cheer or whistle when someone drops a glass. Mistakes happen when people are under pressure and stressed out. Cheering is just so insulting there aren't words. Oh actually there are, it shows you up for the inbred, ill mannered philistine that you are. If you want I could come round to your place of employment and stand behind you in your cubicle with a fog horn and party poppers and let it rip on the first mistake you make. Who's laughing now Mr Brown-Suit man?

Don't take the huff if you and your party of 5 arrive to the restaurant without reservations and are told you will have to wait an hour for a table. Telling me that you are hungry really isn't going to speed things up now is it? The fact that you have arrived at a restaurant suggests to me a level of hunger, so sharing that fact with me is really rather pointless. If I don't have a table, I DON'T HAVE A TABLE! Jesus was a carpenter, I am a waiter. If you need a table you will have to see Him.

Please add these to your notes and check again before you next go out to eat.

People who have been lucky enough to meet me

Bill Murray

never met or been served by Manuel

I'm not one to get all excited about meeting so called celebrities. They eat, sleep, and defecate just like the rest of us. Maybe they eat better food and sleep in bigger beds with more partners than you and I and they probably have people to wipe the toilet seat for them before they pop their A-List asses down, but essentially they are the same as you and I.

But sometimes it's hard not to get caught up in the hub hub that surrounds the great and the good. For example when pop strumpet Samantha Mumba was dining with us I decided that her table was in my section and insisted on serving her. Her table was no where near my section but I would have stabbed, with a fork or steak knife, anyone who tried to take it off me. Now, before you all go "but she's not a star" or "Samantha who" lets remember that this is Belfast and celebrities are thin on the ground. Pamela Ballantine and Julian notwithstanding. There were few reasons for the special ones to be here unless they were making misty eyed films about the "troubles" or looking for their long lost Grannies. Ms Mumba was a good guest and tipped well. Not that she paid, she had a bloke that carried her purse.

And there is nothing like Belfast people to call it how they see it, "Fuck me, she's lovely and she's a real n***** too." said one of my co-workers. Grim.

A few "famous" people over the years have had the joy and luck to be served by me. Nobody too grand. And they are as you would expect them to be. If they seem dull and boring on TV then, in my experience, they are dull and boring in real life.

Highlights (in no particular order)

Terry Hall
Former lead singer of the Specials. An absolute gent and honour to serve. He was cool, damn cool. The sort of cool most can only dream of, especially Pete Doherty. No class bastard. He shook my hand as he left and left a fat note behind. Real class I tells ye, class.


Samantha Mumba
She met me early one Saturday evening. That is not a photograph from that night. Only in my "special dreams". She had a stir fry and diet 7up. She was fun to serve but if I'm being honest if she had spat in my face I would have let her away with it. Rumours that I took the seat she was sitting on home with me are without foundation. Honest. MMMMMumbalicious.






Henry Kelly
Henry struck gold late one Wednesday night when I served him and two of his chums. This was only a few years ago and not during the halcyon days of GOING FOR GOLD. He was an hour late for his booking and there are few things than piss me off more than that. But Henry is smooth and made up for his lateness by letting me order for him. He was full of lilty Oirish charm and very disarming. Again class shines and he left a large gratuity. Legend, you can stick your Terry Wogan where the sun don't shine.


Gerry Adams
The door of the restaurant threw open and a man with his finger in his ear scanned the room. The door closed again and reopened a moment later and in walked Mr Adams. And couldn't have been more polite and left a generous tip and there were no problems with him or his friends. No problems at all. Brilliant customer.
(That's not what he originally wrote. But I helped him with the edit. They haven't completely gone away you know - LMM)The head chef did refuse to cook for him and went on an hour long smoke break.




Nigel Dodds
Not a lot of laughs, as you can imagine, from Mr Dodds and his friends. They had just been to church so maybe they were all laughed out. He was no fun to serve and the table faded into the background if we are going to be honest. Don't remember the tip, but he must have left one or I would have opened with that fact. Dull dull dull. No offence like.






Reviewing that miserable list I wish I lived in New York. There were others, more interesting people too. Some more glamorous than others but I'll save them for another day. In fact there were FIVE more interesting tables just last week, one table of American musicians, one table of Australian musicians, one table of former big time musicians, one table of famous poets, and a former star of kids TV.

Bill Murray would be my ideal celeb to serve. He is said to be an absolute quality punter who tips generously. I'd love to serve Stevie Wonder too and not just for the fact he tips nearly 100%. You have to think someones been taking advantage there.

Q: Why did the customer cross the road?

A: To verbally abuse the waiters!

Not a very funny joke, but then again it wasn't a very funny weekend. I would choose the following words to summarise this weekends jolly japes, broken till systems, abuse, anally retentive, shouting, princess complex, entitlement dingleberry's, tears (not mine I should add), quitting, not quitting, quitting again, Loadzajobs.com, speaking frankly, realising it was all just one weekend and that there are better days, as well as, some worse days ahead.

I'm still too raw to write about it. Suffice to say the weekend was an absolute nightmare. But I ask you, the great unwashed of the bloggosphere, what the fuck goes on in a customers head that makes them think it's acceptable to shout and mess themselves over a late bread portion or wrongly ordered sweet? I mean really lose it in the worst sort of way. Making teenage girls cry is the job of teenage boys, and Justin Timberlake. Grown adults should know better and act accordingly.

Maybe someday, in the future, when the injuries and emotional scars have healed I can give you all a full account. Time is a healer they say. I hope so. Until then the twin medicines of hand rolled tobacco and authentic English Cider will take the pain away. I'm too mangled to write. So here is the weekend in pictures.

The law of sod says that things that are essential
to the job will only breakdown on Bank Holiday Weekends.

This weekends customers were mainly mental whack jobs
It's what happens when people with kids have to suffer a long weekend together.

Causing them to do this

and this over a God Damn late portion of bread

Like this young lady,
Sunday suffered because a lack of support which eventually lead to...

...which is not cool, big, brave or in any way called for
you fucking small cocked little shite.

Beer and fags takes the pain away
but it isn't the only solution....


the waiters new uniform
"Now, who was complaining about their bread?"

Q: Why did the manager cross the road?
A: It wasn't busy on the other side, duh!

Do not confuse your waiter with your lawyer, Priest, or Doctor

loose lips sink ships & provide the waiters with something to talk about

Waiters, to my knowledge, have never had to sign confidentiality agreements. We aren't like Priests, Lawyers, or Doctors in that respect. If we over hear a great bit of gossip you can bet your ass we are going to share it. If we only get half the story we will, as sure as shit, add to it and construct our own story which we will attach to you with the evidence we have to hand. We are unlikely to let the truth get in the way of a good gossip.

I know you expect more from me, as the consummate professional that I am. I know you would think that I would be above all that. How wrong you are! I love it as much as the next waiter. Seriously, nothing breaks the boredom of all that standing about, waiting, than a good gossip. Sometimes you only get a snippet of information but that may be enough to change the way we view you for the rest of your meal.

Some one might walk past and whisper "table 4, affair' ohhh, or "table 12, married and gay" get out, "table 2, she's crying and he doesn't care" bastard. And on it goes. If all of a sudden you find 3 different waiters visiting your table in quick succession then you can bet they are over to check you out on the back of something they have been told about you.

Here's a conversation I over heard a few years ago. I didn't have to strain to hear what they were talking about, but given the subject matter maybe a little caution should have been exercised.

Two ladies sitting at a table waiting for a third guest to arrive. I was presenting the wine and they were chatting about an unnamed lady.

Manuel: "Madam your bottle of Bin 555 Shiraz." I take a step back from the table and begin to open the bottle. If it goes quiet I usually blather a bit about the wine or something else less dull. But on this occasion they carried on their conversation so I stood mute and got about my work.

Snarly Face Lady(SFL): "Yes, yes that's fine. What were you saying?"

Lady in Bad Dress(LBD):" ...Oh yeah he has it now too, all over his...you know...man bits." This is followed by childish laughter, snickering, and mock horror by both

Manuel, maintaining my professional decorum: "Now madam, would you like to taste?" I was trying to hide the little smirk on my face.

SFL: "Yes, go ahead. Oh. My. God. that's hideous, what a dirty, dirty pair!"

By now I am all ears.

I pour a little for her to taste, she approves and I continue to pour her and her friends glass. But they don't wait for me to go and carry on...

LBD: "God, but she HAS always been like that. Remember in school? "

SFL: "I know, I know, dirty tramp. So you think that's why he dropped her?"

LBD: "Yeah, got to be isn't it!"

Just then a slight and not unattractive lady approaches the table (walking a bit funny).

Together the two ladies stand up and greet her arms outstretched, all sympathy and "love". I wait for a moment to see if the new lady needs anything, a drink, crab spray etc. This is normal practice, the drink thing that is, I wasn't just lurking at the table.

LBD:"I was just saying about you and Geoff splitting up.Awh what happened then?"

I made my way from the table bursting with excitement looking for someone to tell. I wasn't concerned about crab ass lady, more about her two bitch friends. Believe me that story got round the building quicker than, well, crabs in a brothel.

Be warned, we talk....

"If you write it, they will come"

Which is probably what Hugh Hefner reassured his editorial team back in the early days of Playboy.

I wasn't sure what to expect when I started to write this blog (such a geeky nerdish word). I wasn't sure if anyone would get what I was on about, I know it ain't War n peace, but you know what I mean. I've never doubted my own abilities, I am a waiter after all and we are a masterful and all powerful group of individuals. But as I wasn't getting a thousand hits a day I was disappointed. I have since reigned in such high ambitions. Seriously, talking to yourself is bad, but talking to yourself via the Internet is sadder than looking at yourself in the mirror and calling yourself "Big Guy!"

But like the new kid at school you have to go and find friends. I pushed the random button and what a Pandora's box of bitterness and swearing was revealed to me. Old Bitter balls, Toast, Troika, Fat Sparrow, Fat Mammy Cat, Kav, Conortje, Paddy etc all became my new bestest friends. Little Miss Manuel however is convinced you are all just grooming me for bad sex and are going rob my dinner money off me. She works with kids with behavioural problems and is offering to take you all on as clients over the summer to turn you all into good little citizens. It's something to think about.

As I start the third month of the the very excellent tome that is WELL DONE FILLET, I am again feeling reflective. This is in part due to my near death experience today. Whilst out cycling this afternoon I found myself heading up a tight little street with a car coming towards me. No worries thought I, a little shimmy to the right and we'll all be on our way. Not to be! One badly executed maneuver later and there I was lying in the middle of the road with a frigging Fiat Punto chugging towards me. The car driver managed to stop with a comfortable 5 yards to spare. Thank the Sweet Baby Jesus it wasn't a Range Rover, an ironic death would be just my luck. The lady in the Punto wound down her window and asked how I was. Thanks love, I'll just untangle my bike from my groin, no need for you to get out. She got rather impatient as it took me a moment or two to get my ass together and drag myself to the side of the road.

There was blood. My bike was all bent out of shape. And my manly man bag was ripped. And all because I had clipped the wing mirror of a bloody Volkswagen Polo! I dragged my sorry bent out of shape ass and bike home and phoned Little Miss Manuel for some love and sympathy. She arrived round and almost seemed disappointed that nothing was broken. I was then marched by the ear out to the car as LMM wanted to visit the scene of the accident. She burst out of the car in a fury popped the wing mirror back in place, removed my note with my phone number on it and got back into the car muttering something about "growing some balls". Nice.

Any way I survived. I looked death in the face and my life flashed before me. And you know what? I regret nothing, and wouldn't change a thing! Up yours, grim reaper.

So comrades, it is Mayday after all, here is your WELL DONE FILLET review of the month.

I had two weddings to deal with in April, one at work which went like a dream. The other wasn't so hot due to the rock star shenanigans of my friend. I am constrained at what I can say to customers at work but not on here. Cunts, like the one who booked for Christmas days after Easter. I shared my recipes for penis and horse. Where else would you get that? Teachers pissed me off as did Satan's bum chum Raul. I introduced you to the Management, not that they like being called that. I was taught a new phrase for fat birds by Emily. Smoking or the lack of it has caused me to swear more often than normal. And cultchie types were given advice on how to handle themselves in public. And never ever send your food back. All in all we all learnt a little something this month. Which is always good.